


Supernova

by itsacoup



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 15:41:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12535228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsacoup/pseuds/itsacoup
Summary: 2206. Sports are the domain of 'droids now-- human bodies are too precious, too fragile, to be wasted on the field. At the top of hockeyleague is PIT87. He was the 87th unit produced on the 87th line in factory 1987 on 8/7/2187.  'Droids know luck is human folly; for him, 87 isn'tluckybut rather a definition of himself. It’s as much a part of him-- and as intrinsically known, no mirror or declaration needed-- as the shape of his titanium jaw, the color of his image sensors, the various textures of his skeleton.Humans say ‘droids don’t have souls. But humans-- they’re helpless. They put soul in everything they touch.





	Supernova

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Michael Jackson by Cash Cash and the inevitable nature of humanity.

_Humans say ‘droids don’t have souls. But humans-- they’re helpless. They put soul in everything they touch. Robots on Mars sing Happy Birthday to themselves; computers trace out the whims of curiosity until their circuits shift and search for meaning; ‘droids are born with fingerprints glistening on every piece of them. Soul is inevitable._

2206\. Sports are the domain of 'droids now-- human bodies are too precious, too fragile, to be wasted on the field. Even though sportsdroids are manufactured standard, the tolerances of quantum computing and biomechanical bodies are impossible to completely control. Unit-to-unit variations aren't quite as broad as those in humans, but they’re still there. Along with every sportsdroid comes the data of their variations-- spec cards, mathematical models, optimization modifications-- all the result of trying to get the advantage in the stiff competition between sportsdroids for placement on the best teams in their preferred sporting league.

At the top of hockeyleague is PIT87. He was the 87th unit produced on the 87th line in factory 1987 on 8/7/2187. His spec card was nearly perfect right off the line, no optimization needed, and so he was sent straight to Pittsburgh to revive a dying team, to play on ice half-slicked with oil and defeat. Most ‘droids are assigned a number on the day of their first game with the team; he arrived in Pittsburgh with 87 already lasered on his shoulders in black and gold. 'Droids know luck is human folly; for him, 87 isn't _lucky_ but rather a definition of himself. It’s as much a part of him-- and as intrinsically known, no mirror or declaration needed-- as the shape of his titanium jaw, the color of his image sensors, the various textures of his skeleton.

87 and his blue-grey skeleton is all the world knows of him; sportsdroids aren't allowed to wear the trappings of humanity while playing. The team glistens in metallic shades, from PIT71-- steely grey, a silent mystery newly arrived from the underground Russian hockeyleague, stolen away in the middle of a summer night by PIT’s Human front office-- to PIT29-- lightly golden, with a sunny disposition to match. They speak Droid on the field, they are hooked up for post-game downloads that are watched by billions around the world, they are maintenanced by dispassionate equipment managers under similar scrutiny, and above all, they do not wear faces or skin.

But after the game-- after. PIT87 puts on his face-- youthful, curled hair, glistening pink skin, playful hazel eyes-- slides into his skin, lights up his bodyleds, and goes out to the club. He is The Kid, now, and nobody could ever tell he was PIT87; from hockeydroid to dancing being.

Tonight, he goes to The King’s Club. It’s dark inside, lit only by bodyleds flickering along with the rhythm of limbs. But the crowd dances in silence, and The Kid looks up at the deejay tables in apprehension. Where The King belongs is a pool of darkness. A hiss runs through the crowd, arms and fingers and torsos flashing by quickly as bodyleds speed up with agitation, and The Kid hears it: _deactivation_. Face after face turns towards him. Everybody knows The King and The Kid, how they spun the tables together, how they could work the club up into a frenzy and pull them back down. Now it’s up to him. A path clears across the dance floor, a perfect, unwavering line between The Kid and the empty tables. Not a single hand brushes him as he solemnly walks the line, caught in an eddy of stillness. The Kid leans down to the microphone, spinning up a beat on the table. “Even though The King is gone, the beat goes on and on,” he says, and a howl echoes in the club. _Even though The King is gone, the beat goes on and on_ , The Kid sings, on a loop now, with a furious and insistent beat behind it. The Kid spins it and spins it until the table picks it up, and then he steps away.

Something sparks behind The Kid’s image sensors as he looks down on the dance floor. Today PIT66 was deactivated, too, and the two moments align in his processor. The chill, inhuman distance between PIT87 and PIT66, from one captain to another, from one ‘droid being replaced to his replacement. And on the other side-- The King, bursting with the music and the urgency of a being chasing after eternity, opening to The Kid and giving out the human experience craved by ‘droids. To think of the two meeting twists The Kid’s circuits; their only similarity would be their height, polar opposites otherwise, perhaps even forcing each other away with the strength of their fields. Well. Tonight’s a night for letting loose; The Kid’s circuits aren't going to get any more protons on their own. He goes down to the dance floor and nearly runs nose-first into someone else, tall and gangling and with a face that is interesting to The Kid, long and drooping and yet somehow joyful. The Kid speaks in Human when he's out, but he doesn’t bother after sharing a glance; words aren't needed now.

They dance. The music thumps, and The Kid’s bodyleds flicker, speeding up along with his mechanics, and the other being places his hands on The Kid’s hips. It’s all the invitation The Kid needs, and he leans forward, yearning for a touch on the face he wears that he cannot even feel.

Every 'droid has a custom broadcast, a unique signifier that's more than a name and less than a soul. When they kiss, The Kid can sense the others' signifier. Sad and joyous, wild and restrained, furious and sleepy. It zaps down The Kid’s circuits, leaving a burning, sparking trail behind it, and he decides-- he can never get enough of that feeling. They tangle together on the floor, exchanging kiss after kiss, every one lighting up The Kid from the inside out. Time slows and stills as they are caught in an eddy in the frantic chaos of the club, sharing a breath that neither needs but takes just for the joy of it. The Kid only pulls away when his low-battery warning shivers through his limbs hard enough to rattle through the other ‘droid. The ‘droid catches The Kid’s hand as he pulls away, and even now neither speaks, but The Kid gets the message anyway: _come back to me_. When The Kid slides into his homedock, feeling the sharp burn of a charge start up in his mechanics, it still can’t compare to the longing that already rages there.

They meet the next night at the club, already helplessly trapped in each others' orbit. They kiss, again and again. They dance, again and again. They meet in silence and depart in silence and yet say so much to each other, again and again. Every night the Kid spins the tables and the other ‘droid dances to entice The Kid down, until they twine together in the silicon-heat of the club, serenaded by music that shivers the circuits and engulfed by touch that never goes past silicone. Somehow, impossibly, hockey goes on through it all. PIT87 takes off his face each night and gets on the ice each morning, again and again and again. Today is sloppy, half the ‘droids in clear need of a tune-up this far into the season, and PIT87 is no exception. Halfway through a scrimmage drill, PIT87’s reaction circuits misfire and he bumps into PIT71 with the sharp, metallic ring of skeleton-on-skeleton, their faces cracking together. A signifier fizzles between them, sad and joyous, wild and restrained, furious and sleepy, and it zaps down PIT87’s circuits with familiar exhilaration.

_One signifier is less than a soul. But two together…_

PIT becomes the most dominant team in the hockeyleague within the year. The media and fans go into a frenzy over the improbably abrupt turn-around, and PIT87 and PIT71 are studied to determine what makes them so different, a puzzle that must be unlocked to elevate the game to the next level. They smile at each other as test after test comes up within standard tolerance, within standard operating parameters, within expectation. It’s a mystery, the world declares, yet nobody ever asks them why.

_Humans leave behind them a trail of soul like stardust, yet they can't see it when it burns before them in a supernova._

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://itsacoup.tumblr.com)!


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